


inside my morbid mind; lost myself between the seams and i just close my eyes

by emzazzy2004



Category: Barry (TV 2018), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Basically Richie is Barry with a slightly different origin story, Emotional Manipulation, Fuches Manipulates Richie and I hate him, Fuches sucks, Gay Richie Tozier, Grooming, Hitman Richie Tozier, I love fics where characters have huge secrets, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Richies secret is that he's a hit man, Secrets, Spoiler Alert - Freeform, clown amnesia, so I wrote one cause I'm weak
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 22:53:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29250252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emzazzy2004/pseuds/emzazzy2004
Summary: The first time he killed someone, it didn’t really feel like killing. Hands clapped his back, laughing men in camouflage remarking at his surprisingly good aim. It was surreal. Richie Tozier, the Trashmouth himself, wannabe comedian, marine enlistee, CEO of terrible your-mom jokes, was finally good at something. This weedy little kid with his trademark curls shaved clean away and a military issue rifle still in his newly calloused hands had just killed four men at long range without blinking. And as their blood stained the sand, the blood of men with families, men who, despite their malicious cause, were still only men, Richie found his place in the world was clear. He was destined to be the man behind the scope, murder in his hands, a puppet on a string. It wasn’t the life he had imagined, not bright lights and laughs from an audience, but it was a life nonetheless.---Hitman! Richie AU inspired by me binging the first season of Barry in a five hour period
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Monroe Fuches & Richie Tozier, The Losers Club & Richie Tozier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	1. i used to be a little boy; so old in my shoes

**Author's Note:**

> Story Title - Morbid Mind by Jack Kays
> 
> Chapter Title - Disarm by Smashing Pumpkins
> 
> I literally just went through my playlist for titles of this story about someone who kills for a living. And it was easy to find them. Idk if that should be concerning or not.

The first time he killed someone, it didn’t really feel like killing. Hands clapped his back, laughing men in camouflage remarking at his surprisingly good aim. It was surreal. Richie Tozier, the Trashmouth himself, wannabe comedian, marine enlistee, CEO of terrible your-mom jokes, was finally good at something. This weedy little kid with his trademark curls shaved clean away and a military issue rifle still in his newly calloused hands had just killed four men at long range without blinking. And as their blood stained the sand, the blood of men with families, men who, despite their malicious cause, were still only men, Richie found his place in the world was clear. He was destined to be the man behind the scope, murder in his hands, a puppet on a string. It wasn’t the life he had imagined, not bright lights and laughs from an audience, but it was a life nonetheless. 

It wasn’t that killing in itself was good, that it made him feel good. In fact, for the first few years of his service he threw up after every shot he made sunk its way into flesh. His brain wasn’t as fucked as to associate killing with good, to like it. But every time a life was taken by him, his place was solidified as a killer and the act of death seemed less and less drastic, less of a thing. Less monumental and more of a job.

He’d enlisted to pay for college. A full ride to some fancy-schmancy one in a big city may have been in the cards for someone else, but the Toziers had grown up a little less than well off, most of Went’s money from his dental practice being sunk into paying off debts and tabs at bars. It was necessary. After the car accident, where else could he have gone? His mom, his dad, his little sister, all of them gone, leaving only his Uncle Fuches to take care of him. And thus, his role as a killer was born from the ashes of a life that could have been if only a random citizen hadn’t decided to drive drunk.

The blood only piled up from there.

After eight years of service, eight years of bullets and death and climbing from a Private to a Corporal and then a Master Sergeant, eight years of the only home he could truly remember, eight tours in the Middle East, it all came crashing down. 

Now, Richie had accumulated scars over the years. A knife to his side during an infiltration, a bullet to his leg, a couple concussions and some accumulated hearing loss from some IED explosions. He’d always escaped by the skin of his teeth, shallow and mild wounds not stopping him for more than a few weeks. But the last time, the one that counted the most, the one that took him out for good, should have been nothing more than a routine sweep of a weapons stash house for the Afghani mob.

They’d been surveilling the place for weeks. No activity, no light, no one home, a clean job. And then, as they’d thought it was safe, an ambush. Waves of bullets from semi-automatics raining down on the small troop, Richie as their respected leader--a little funny and a lot haunted, well-liked amongst his brothers and sisters in arms. They ducked for cover, Richie pulling the newly arrived Private Dawes down with him behind a wall of crates. 

It was a trap. It had always been a trap. He should have seen it coming, should have known it was too easy a job. But there he was, clutching the gun he’d been carrying for half his service, trapped with about half his team alive, the other half bleeding out with flesh like swiss cheese.

With a surge of energy, he crouched, peering around the side of the crate wall with the muzzle of his weapon, pulling the weighted trigger. The force of the bullets flying towards warm bodies pushed back into his shoulder, rhythmic and familiar. His weedy limbs and skinny figure had grown bulking and wide during his years in service, turning him from a spaghetti noodle of a boy-- _Come on Spaghetti Man, you love me! Cute, cute, cute!_ \--into a broad-shouldered, war-hardened man. 

_“Come on Dawes! On my count, we retreat. It’s a straight shot to the rear exit! Run and don’t look back! One! Two! Go!”_

He could still feel the bullet sink into his hip, shattering bone with the force of an armored truck driving over the joint. An intertrochanteric fracture, the medic told him later as he was rushed into surgery. The blood loss was extensive, the sticky crimson liquid littering the sand now his own as Private Dawes dragged him to safety, the remaining five or so members of the team covering their backs. Two screws, three pins, and a metal plate pieced his shattered joint back together. And after a tender goodbye to his unit, which included quite a tight hug from Private Dawes, a weedy young woman who became a hero, he was shipped back to The States for ten months of rehabilitation and a new civilian life he’d never wanted and not had since he was eighteen. 

At twenty-six, the third chapter of his life began.

He always separated his life into three categories.

Before. A kid with a family and then no family, someone who was found and then lost, someone who had no choice but to join the military in order to live a life worth something. In order to make his family proud as they looked down on him from death.

During. A kid turned man, a hero, a leader, someone who knew his place and what it entailed. A Marine, a Sergeant, a friend, a confidant, a murderer in the name of justice and peace.

After. A broken man, weathered beyond his years, shattered and pieced back together physically and mentally, depressed and traumatized and longing for purpose. Aimless without his gun in his hands, until someone handed him a sniper rifle and a file and told him to shoot whoever they wanted him to. The money was dirty, but it paid well. Murder blurred from righteous to morally grey, maybe even unjust at times, but always for a paycheck.

It was actually Fuches who started it. A year after his discharge, Fuches showed up at his door with a smile on his face that refused to acknowledge how he’d left Richie in his time of duress. 

_“You look like shit, Rich. I’ve got a proposition for you, bud.”_

And just like that, after months of doing nothing but recovering and laying in bed with no purpose, no emotions, no set reality, Richie Tozier’s purpose of being a killer was back. Just with less...officiality. The next thirteen years of his life were spent being another cog in another machine, quick and dirty and solo kills filling his fridge with food and lining Fuches’ pockets.

There was something comforting about the method. Get the file, surveil the target, shoot or strangle or stab or torture, do whatever the client wanted, and get the hell out before the police came. It was morbid and unfulfilling, but the depression he’d felt after being discharged was gone. Mostly. Sometimes. A little bit. Watered down and more bearable.

It wasn’t an excuse, but it was something. Fuches told him it was good. That he killed bad people, that the money was great, that he was proud of him. 

_“I love you, kiddo, you know that?”_

_“You’re doing phenomenal work, Rich. I’m so proud.”_

_“You’re the son I never had, Rich.”_

_“Once you’re in, you’re in for life.”_

_“You can’t leave, Richie. I can’t let that happen.”_

_“I have records of all your kills. Leave and the police will have them too.”_

_“You’re cornered, Tozier. I’m the only one you have left. You can never leave, never stop.”_

_“This is all you’re good at, Richie. You’re never going to find any job besides this. Without a gun in your hands, you’re worthless.”_

_“You can’t leave me, Richie. We only have each other.”_

_“I love you, bud.”_

Fuches _was_ the only one he had left. And he loved Fuches. He was his father’s oldest friend, an Uncle to Richie more than a handler or a business partner.

And Richie could never get out. Not with Fuches there.

It was a love-hate relationship. Nostalgia that held him back with sharp wires, cutting him if he made an unauthorized move.

It was suffocating, drowning in quicksand with a gun aimed at your back and someone you care about threatening to shoot.

Richie was fucked.  
...

His latest assignment was routine. Some guy was sleeping with a high up mob member’s wife. The client wanted the guy gone. Richie had done a million jobs like it. 

At forty years old, Richie wasn’t much different than he was at thirty or thirty-five. He didn’t really have friends or social media. Fuches and a few marine buddies were all he kept in contact with, and although they didn’t fill the gaping void that always seemed to hang in his chest, echoing the absence of someone he didn’t think he knew, they cared. He still made jokes, gave horrible nicknames, and annoyed everyone around him constantly. It was a miracle that anyone put up with him, they were saints for their charity work. And of course, the mental shit was always hanging there in the back of his head, waiting to emerge when he was alone. But when he had an assignment, he was a blank slate, someone who could slip in and out without a problem. He was silent, anonymous, and oh so deadly. Not that many knew it.

 _“How’s the job going, Rich?”_ Fuches’ voice crackled in his earbud. Richie was set up on a hill that sat opposite his target’s house, hidden from view by angles and an abandoned concrete structure. 

“It’s going good, Fuche-alicious. And these hips ain’t lying.”

His handler chuckled. _“That’s good, kiddo. Call me when it’s done, alright? Then we’ll go get dinner like we planned.”_

“Okay, man. _Ciao_.”

A curtain fluttered in the living room window of the house, drawing Richie’s attention. He tossed his phone to the side, peering through the scope of his gun, but there was nothing to be seen, really. He was about to glance away when the doorknob turned and the front door opened, revealing a muscular man with a ponytail and a beer in his hand. Richie glanced down at the file to confirm what he already knew. It was the target.

He lined up his shot, aiming for the temple with steady hands, and then...

_Bzzt, bzzt, bzzzzzt. Bzzt, bzzt, bzzzzzt._

He sighed, put down the gun, and reached for his phone.

“What? I’m in the middle of a job, Fuches, I told you I’d call you when--”

 _“Richie?”_ a deep voice interjected. It definitely wasn’t Monroe Fuches. _“Richie Tozier?”_

Richie’s blood ran cold for some reason, bile rising in his throat. There was something familiar about the man’s voice as it echoed from the phone. It was cool and even, but something about Richie was so attuned to the subtle highs and lows in the tone. It was almost as if the man on the phone was nervous.

Richie cleared his throat, the target across the street momentarily forgotten as well as the annoyance he felt at the interruption of his job. “This is he. And who is this gentleman caller for lil’ old me?”

 _“You haven’t changed a bit, man,”_ the voice chuckled.

Richie’s breath caught in his throat. “Excuse me, do I know you?”

There was a long pause, the static ringing in Richie’s ears. And then his world came crashing down around him.

_“It’s Mike. Mike Hanlon. From Derry.”_

Richie couldn’t stop the bile from rising in his throat once more. He lunged for the nearest bush, puking into the leaves. Pictures flew through his mind, pain racing behind them. Richie and a bunch of people when he was a kid, laughing. A huge body of water and splashing children. The feeling of wood and a pocket knife at his fingertips. A tall black kid with a loud laugh and a huge smile, warm feelings spreading from his happiness to Richie’s gut.

 _“Richie! Richie are you okay?”_ The earbud was still in his ear, Mike’s voice loud and clear.

Richie wiped his mouth with his sleeve, breathing heavily. “Mike. Mike n’ Ike. I’m great, man.”

_“It’s okay, Rich. The others reacted the same way.”_

_Others?_

And oh, _oh_. There were seven of them. Six boys and a girl. His best friends in the world. Their names danced on the tip of his tongue. There were Mike and Richie, of course, but also...

_A thin boy with tight curls and a pointed face like a rat or a bird, wit as sharp as his features. Scared and trembling and watching the way a small animal might._

_A stuttering boy with auburn hair, strong, brave, determined with a set jaw and something or someone to find._

_A burning girl with fiery hair and a button nose, cigarette smoke clinging to her perfume, signature bright blue nail polish waving the white stick around as she laughs._

_A rounder boy with chubby cheeks and a bowl cut, perpetual headphones playing a boy band, notes for poems and random words or lyrics written on his skin in ink._

_And one more boy, one that’s all round edges and sharp corners, big brown eyes and soft brown curls, short and snappy and vicious, an ocean of freckles waving over his nose. Someone so fierce and loyal, someone that for some reason inspired emotions that Richie hadn’t felt in years._

“There were seven of us, Mikey. _Seven_. They’re so blurry...” he trailed off, shocked by his own recollections.

Mike sighed, and Richie could hear him shift the phone from one ear to the other. _“It’s okay Rich.”_

“What...What were their names?”

_“Well, there was you, me, and then there was Bill. He was our leader. He’s a writer now, Bill Denbrough.”_

The name tickled something else in the back of Richie’s brain. 

“Wait? The horror author? Dude, what the fuck?”

Mike chuckled, warm and solid. _“Yeah. It’s wild. But there was also Ben Hanscom. He moved to Derry the summer after eighth grade. He’s a renowned architect now. And Stan Uris. You were the only one he invited to his bar mitzvah. He’s an accountant.”_

“Big Bill, Haystack, and Stan the Man!”

 _“Yeah!”_ Mike laughed again and it sort of felt like home. _“Then there was Bev. Beverly Marsh. You and Bev were smoke partners. She’s a fashion designer now, really big in New York.”_

“Oh god.” Richie scoffed. “I used to call her Molly Ringwald, right? She was so cool.” For the first time in years, he felt like actually crying.

_“She still is, man. And last, but certainly not least, was Eddie Kaspbrak.”_

Richie’s whole world stopped spinning.

Eddie Kaspbrak. Eddie Spaghetti, his best friend, the best person he’d ever known.

Eds. His first love.

 _“Richie? Rich?”_ Mike questioned, concerned by the sudden silence that sounded through the call.

Richie swallowed thickly, voice cracking as he spoke. “I’m here, Mike. God. Eds. _Eds_.”

 _“Yeah, Rich. He_ hated _those nicknames.”_

**_Don’t call me that, asshole._**

**_That’s not what your mom said last night!_**

“Yeah. He did.”

Mike cleared his throat, gearing up for what came next. Richie was his fourth call of six. He knew the drill by then.

_“Richie, we made a promise. The summer of 89’. We promised we’d come back, Tozier.”_

A pain seared through Richie’s palm, making him hiss. He turned over his hand to reveal a scar he’d never seen before. It was jagged and faded against his pale skin. “A promise,” he echoed quietly.

 _“You have to come, Richie. Please. We’re meeting in Derry tomorrow night. We need you.”_ Mike sounded desperate and scared, something that didn’t quite fit with the image Richie held of him in his head, strong and steadfast.

Richie held his breath for a second. And then, devoid of all emotion but fear and incredulity, “Yeah. Of course, Mikey. I’ll be there...I’ll be there.”

The call clicked off with the press of a button. Richie just sat there for a moment, trying to wrap his mind around how exactly the entire world had rearranged itself around him in a five-minute phone call.

Fuck. Derry. Derry, Maine.

He’d grown up in that hell hole. He’d grown up _gay_ there.

And Eddie, holy shit. Eddie, the person he’d loved most in the world, back when the world was smaller. Eddie Spaghetti, Eduardo, Eds, Doctor K, Spaghetti Man, Eddie My Love, anything and everything Richie had ever nicknamed him. 

Just...Eddie.

A beer can rattled against concrete in the distance, breaking Richie’s focus. The target had finished his drink, smashing it with his heel on the ground. Richie immediately snapped back into go mode, grabbing his gun and aiming.

The guy never even saw it coming.

On the drive back to the apartment, Richie booked a flight to Bangor for the next morning.


	2. forget and ignore who i used to be; that kid is never coming back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title - Bathtub by The Front Bottoms

_“I’m sorry, Rich, you’re taking a what?”_

Richie pulled into his designated parking space. “I’m taking a vacation, Fuches. An old friend called and I need to go see them.”

Fuches continued to babble loudly into his ear as he unlocked the door to his apartment. Richie put him on speaker and threw the phone on the bed, clenching his fist and squashing the urge to scream. 

Fuches wasn’t very keen on him taking vacations, not by himself at least. It was a control thing, Richie knew that. He wasn’t stupid. Fuches was a manipulator and a bastard, but he was the only person Richie had left. 

Well, he used to be.

The fact that there were six other people on the planet that at one point or another were his friends, that cared about him, was something he still had to wrap his head around. For so many years of his life, it had only been Fuches. Only Fuches knew him, loved him, cared for him, put up with his highs and his lows and the barely contained rage. But Mike, Mike certainly seemed to care, even after almost twenty-five years apart. 

There were six people in the world that he loved. And not in the fucked up power-struggle kind of way that he and Fuches had. His childhood friends, the Losers Club, for some reason summoned more than just nostalgia from him. A large part of Richie’s heart was still so fond of people he hadn’t seen since he was a kid, that he hadn’t remembered until less than an hour previous. 

However cryptic it was, they were worth missing another job.

Richie firmly cut off the older man’s rambling. “Look, Fuches. I just finished a job, and now I’m taking two weeks off. It’s not a request, man.”

_“But--”_

He clicked off the call and slid his phone into his back pocket. He already had a go-bag for if a job went wrong and he had to get the hell out of dodge. By the next afternoon, he’d be back in Derry.  
\---

The first thing he did when he got to the Derry Inn was wash the thick scent of air travel from his skin. The sweat of flying and the haze of falling asleep over Colorado and waking up in Maine all went down the drain, swirling by Richie’s toes. He had to hunch over into the stream of water, trying not to hit his elbows on the tile walls while he lathered the hair on his chest. Steam filled the room, fogging everything over, pressing in on his nicotine poisoned lungs until breath was impossible to find and there was no choice but to leave the burning warmth of the shower.

There was something strange about being there, back in Derry, past even the nostalgia and apparent amnesia that clouded his mind. Some palpable unease, as solid and real as the condensation that ran down the mirror in droplets.

And as he took in his appearance--the pointed nose, the crystal blue eyes, the strong jaw, the lined forehead with thick and furrowed brows, the short dark hair that had lost its curl, the salt and pepper stubble, the broad shoulders--there was a string tugging at his memories, something past a normal childhood lurking there. Flashes of light and terror.

Something horrible had happened in Derry. And what was even more concerning was the lack of recall that Richie had.

It was dark by the time he pulled up to the restaurant, a newer Chinese place called the Jade of the Orient. The ground was wet and the air was chilled as he stalked quickly towards the entrance, hands in pockets and head down, a Glock tucked in the back of his waistband for caution and comfort.

A man and woman loitered in the entrance, embracing, and it only took a glance of coppery hair and a warm smile to know who they were.

“You two look amazing. What the fuck happened to me?”

Bev’s eyes lit up in recognition. “Richie! Shut up, you look amazing!” She pulled him to her with a familiar force, warm and fierce and so much like home, whatever that was. She still smelled like cigarettes and rose perfume, soft with a hard edge.

Ben wasn’t much harder to recognize. Although he’d shot up to almost Richie’s height and slimmed down a fuck-ton, the same warm brown eyes and bright grin stared Richie undeniably in the face.

“What’s up, Haystack? Busy wooing all those with architecture kinks?”

A laugh erupted from Ben’s lips, another piece of home clicking into place in Richie’s heart.

“Hey, Rich. It’s good to see you, man.”

The room Mike had reserved was tucked into the back corner of the restaurant, almost impossible to find if the waitress hadn’t led them there. It was enclosed in red and gold lattice, a fish tank taking up most of one wall, and a gong sitting in the nearest corner. Inside stood four men. One of them was obviously Mike, taller than Richie with dark skin and a booming laugh.

Beside him was a man with grey and auburn streaked hair, handsome with a dazzling smile to boot. It was hard to reconcile the gangly, stuttering Bill Denbrough with the broad, short man who was clapping Mike’s back as he chuckled, but the same air of charisma was there, the kind of child and man that could lead anyone anywhere with a rousing speech and a firm set of his jaw.

Next to Bill was a man with tight, curly, dark brown hair and a pointed face. His mouth was set in a hard line, one corner barely quirking upwards in amusement as he rolled his eyes sarcastically. Stanley Uris held an air of caution around him still, present in the way that his hands were kept firmly in his pockets and how he reacted a few seconds too late to a joke. He seemed to be just like he was when they were kids. Deadpan, hilarious, biting, witty. Simply the best.

The fourth man had his back to Richie, but by process of elimination, it was clear who it was.

Eddie Kaspbrak. His fucking gay awakening. Great.

A part of him wanted to turn around, run out the door, and vomit into the bushes. Another wanted to hug Eddie and never let go. The third part of his monkey brain was just static in the background, stalling at the thought that he was breathing the same air as _Eddie Kaspbrak, his fucking gay awakening_.

Richie didn’t know why he banged the gong, why he drew attention to himself in a way he usually avoided. His job was to live in the shadows, to skirt the edges of the tantalizing light and never ever dare to touch. But the tone reverberated through the room, drawing all six pairs of eyes towards him. One pair in particular, large and brown and fond, made his breath catch in his throat.

At the sudden awareness of his presence, which he had for some reason demanded, words instinctively fell from his lips, his nasally voice echoing through the room. “This meeting of the Losers Club has officially begun!”  
\---

They settled into the family-style dinner with a round or two of shots, thank god. Richie knocked back two in quick succession, wincing at the overwhelming sweetness of the “Red-Headed Slut” as it slid into his stomach. 

The conversation between the Lucky Seven was loud and fast, like a bustling highway of “What do you do now?” and “Are you married?” or “Let me see pictures!”. They’d only gotten around to interrogating under half of the table by the time first helpings were done. Nothing super surprising had come to light. Mike was a librarian and local historian, Bill was a famous author with a Hollywood hotshot for a wife, Ben was a celebrated architect and notorious recluse.

He dreaded the moment that their questions would turn to him.

As they went back for second helpings, it was Bev’s turn. And she seemed almost as reluctant as he was to share.

She was quiet as she mentioned the pending divorce, hand sliding over the base of her throat where bruising was just slightly visible. Richie’s jaw worked overtime grinding against his teeth, and he thought that Tom Rogan was definitely the type of man that he would have no remorse in doing a job on. He’d killed dozens of Tom Rogans, men who beat, raped, and abused wives. And when they were on the other side of his barrel or blade or hands, whatever was required of him, there was no sadness in his heart for them. Fuches always told him that he killed bad people, and despite himself, Richie always knew that it wasn’t the truth, but that category of men deserved the pain that he inflicted on them.

“Woah! Richie, you okay? You look like you’re about to kill someone.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Stanley was looking at him intently, eyes glancing to where Richie’s shot glass was broken into large pieces by his clenched fist. Blood beaded on his skin where it was cut. He stared at the glass, not even remembering a noise or pain, just blood rushing in his ears as his mind detailed all the ways he’d murder Tom Rogan.

Killing Tom would be personal. And it was another part of his job to never let it get personal. Never toe the line between cold-blooded contract killing and messy rage as the blade slices through skin over and over and over and over and--

“Don’t worry, man, I’ll clean up the glass. Go wash your hand in the bathroom.”

The rage surged through his veins as he stiffly stalked to the men’s restroom, resisting the urge to slam the door behind him. He wanted to scream, to punch the wall again and again and again and cry at what he was. What he knew he was.

Richie Tozier was poisoned. Infected by murder and desensitized to violence. Richie Tozier was a killer.

Richie Tozier was _not_ a good person.

Good people don’t want to murder others, not even abusive sons of bitches.

Before he could stop them, tears started rolling down his cheeks, wet and hot and itchy. It wasn’t like it hadn’t crossed his mind before. He wasn’t _that_ deluded. But there was no longer a Fuches to reassure him that just because he’d killed one person every two or so weeks for the past thirteen years didn’t mean he was evil. It was clear as day as he watched himself in the bathroom mirror, studying the crease between his brows and the hopelessness in his eyes, that he was eternally fucked. His soul was a goner, if he’d actually believed in that shit.

What part of him, if any, deserved the six most amazing people in the world? What part of him had earned their care? It was clear that even after twenty-five or so years they all loved each other as much as when they were kids. Sure, teen Richie might have deserved that, might have deserved everything that he never got to have, but the man that the boy had grown into was villainous and wicked and everything that he wished he could change in the world.

In killing the monsters and the not-so-monsters, he’d become one himself.

There was a quiet knock on the door. Richie had just enough time to wipe the tear tracks away before Stan’s head was peeking through the crack.

“Rich? We’ve got it all cleaned up.”

“Um, thanks. I’m sorry that I broke it.”

Stan smirked, pushing the door open further. “It’s fine. You’re bound to still be a fucking klutz after all this time.”

“Yeah. A klutz,” he echoed.

“You’re still bleeding. Let me clean it up.” Stan’s hands were comically smaller than Richie’s as he held them under the water, wiping the coagulated blood away with a paper towel. “Eddie made me come to make sure that you weren’t dying of a blood infection. Gave me a talk about proper cleaning methods and what to do if you started seizing. Let me use his first-aid kid and everything”

That got a chuckle out of Richie. “He’s still just as uptight as when we were kids. Could make a fortune in the diamond business. Just stick a lump of coal up his ass and you’d have a gem in two weeks.”

Maybe he was too fond as he talked about Eddie, because Stan stopped bandaging his hand, eyes searching for his. Richie stubbornly kept his gaze trained on the mirror.

“Still?”

The breath caught in his throat. “What do you mean?”

“You still love him?”

Richie’s heart skipped a beat, and not in the good way. A memory flashed across his mind.

_The summer sun glared down at them, making sweat slide down their bare backs. Stan and Richie sat at the edge of the quarry, watching the other five play chicken. Bill was on Mike’s shoulders, Bev on Ben’s, and Eddie egged them on from a safe distance, whooping and hollering as Bill tipped backward and Bev threw her fists in the air, victorious._

_“You know that you can tell me anything, right Rich?”_

_Richie pushed his damp curls off of his forehead, sighing. “I know.”_

_The only sounds were splashing and the laughter of the teen Losers for a while, but Stan, much to the surprise of anyone besides the Losers, wasn’t much worse than Richie and Eddie when it came to talking all the time._

_“It’s okay to like him like that. I know that Derry is a shithole, and people call you awful names, but they’re wrong. It’s not wrong to be...”_

_A lump formed in Richie’s throat, big and solid and painful. “Isn’t it? Wouldn’t I be wrong?”_

_A long arm wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him into a brief side hug. “You could never be wrong Richie. Not for that. Your comedy on the other hand...”_

_Richie shoved him into the water, and that was that._

Somehow, despite all of the memories of Stan and their friends floating away, those words had always stayed in the back of his mind. He could never be wrong for that. And so he wasn’t.

After a long silence, filled similarly by the splashing of water and laughter echoing from the restaurant, Richie relented.

“Yeah. I heard his name and it all came rushing back. Like it never left and I’m still a fucking kid pining after his best friend. Besides you, of course, Manley Stanley. You were always my favorite.”

“No, I wasn’t. There was no competition.”

Richie nodded. “Thanks, Mr. Urine.”

Stan groaned. “I regret ever helping you. Now, let’s get back out there.”  
\---

Eddie’s chair almost fell backward as he stood, rushing over to examine Richie’s hand. He turned it over, scrutinizing Stan’s work with a creased forehead and a frown. It was frustrating to Richie how cute the man was at forty, with wide brown eyes, an imposing nose, and thin lips covered by dark stubble.

“Did Stan pass the test, Doctor K?”

Eddie huffed, finally letting out a slight nod, a grimace digging dimples into his cheeks. “It’s...good enough.”

“Woah, Stan! A glowing review!”

Eddie thumped him upside the head with his palm as they sat down. “Shut up fuckface. No one thinks you’re funny.”

“I think I’m funny.”

“You’re literally the only one.”

“The only one with a dick this long!”

“You’re literally disgusting.”

“As opposed to figuratively disgusting?”

“Oh my god,” Bev groaned. “They have literally not changed in twenty-five years.”

Stan sighed, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest. “No, Bev. They’ve gotten worse. Somehow, whatever deity controls this shit allowed them to grow more powerful in their ability to make me want to jump off a building.”

“Aw, you flatter me, Stanley! Alas, I have been gifted with the ultimate power.”

“If you say having a huge di--”

“The biggest dick in human history!”

There was a resounding groan throughout the room.

“Another round please!”

They settled back into their seats, knocking back another round of shots. The buzz was pleasant between Richie’s ears as the alcohol made quick work of him, warming his stomach.

It wasn’t hard to slip back into the persona he’d made as a kid, Trashmouth Tozier, known to all, loved by six. It wasn’t reality though. In a week or so he’d inevitably be back to killing, to having a manilla folder slid towards him, a picture and name there waiting to be erased from the living with whatever means necessary.

Then, however, he was just a kid again, surrounded by his best friends, buzzed and silly and carefree, despite the cuts on his hand and the darkness in his thoughts. It was easy to pretend, so he did just that.

“Please tell me you became a doctor, Eddie,” Bev was crowing, hands cradling her chin.

Eddie crumpled a napkin in his hands, throwing it onto his plate. “No, actually. I’m a mechanic. I own a series of shops in New York. _Eddie and Frank’s Automotives_ , after my dad.”

Richie’s mouth quirked upwards involuntarily. It was just like Eddie to actually make something of himself that he actually liked and wanted. When they were younger, and Eddie was shorter, he was pushed around all the time by everyone. But as an adult, he seemed to have grown a mind of his own, not as afraid of dirt and grime and germs.

He wanted to say something nice, something along the lines of _‘I’m proud of you Eds’_ or _‘You’re the bravest motherfucker I’ve ever known’_ or _‘I never forgot you, and even when I did I always searched for you, I could never get the image of you out of my head, even when it was blurry’_ but what fell from his mouth was “You shacking up with anyone Eds? Surely you found someone with a microdick fetish to love you!”

Anger flared in Eddie’s eyes, and it was delicious. Cowardly, but delicious. He jabbed a finger in Richie’s direction.

“For your information, dickwad, I’m recently divorced. She was manipulative and I left her. Are you happy?”

For a moment, Richie thought he’d gone too far, but Eddie’s eyes were way too fond for that. So he just smirked and sipped his drink, reveling in the knowledge of an alternate universe where Richie was able to make a move and fall in love and be famous for making people laugh with Eddie by his side until death did them part.

“Hey, what about you Trashmouth? What do you do for a living?”

“You were a marine, right Rich?” Mike cut in, obviously having done some research to find him.

Bill snorted into his drink. “Richie a marine? Trashmouth Tozier? No way!”

Richie cleared his throat. In another life, yes, Trashmouth Tozier was too stubborn and loudmouthed to be in the military. But in that life, his family wasn’t dead and he didn’t kill people for money. 

“Yes way, actually. Served eight years in Afghanistan until I was honorably discharged due to injury. Shot in the hip in an ambush on a mission I was leading. I had to learn to walk again once I was state-side.” He pulled the dog tags from underneath his shirt with his thumb. The Losers leaned in close, reading the inscription

 _TOZIER_  
_RICHARD W._  
_991357XXXX_  
_A POS_  
_JEWISH_

Ben let out a whistle. “Wow, Rich. Thanks for your service, man.” The rest of the table echoed the sentiment, suddenly looking either awkward--Bill--proud--Bev, Ben, Mike, and Stan--or confused--Eddie.

Richie never knew what to say to that. ‘Thanks for your service.’ His eight years had been his rise and his downfall. The moment the gun was in his hands the first week of boot camp, he was simultaneously doomed and given a purpose.

 _“You’re useless without a gun in your hand,”_ Fuches’ voice rang in his ear.

His purpose from that point on was to kill whoever he was told to kill, no questions asked, and in his thirteen years post-discharge, he’d mulled over imaginary families of the men and women he’d killed, during service and after it. His “service” was less of him protecting the country and more of him following blind, then eventually leading others blind as he climbed the ranks.

So yeah, his relationship with his time in the military was rather complicated. In lieu of responding to the others, he nodded, sipping on a beer.

“I’m a freelancer now. Kind of like a private investigator. A friend of my father’s does the business end of it and I do the action and stuff.”

“So you, like, find out if people are cheating on spouses and shit?”

“More ‘and shit’ than anything else. How about you, Stanny Boy? Who managed to put that ring on your finger?”

Stan’s mouth twisted into a lovesick smile, the sort of smile that Richie would wear as he studied Eddie from afar, fond and gentle and completely captivated.

“Patty. We’ve been married for twelve years now. We have a daughter, Libby. She’s three.”

Bev let out a squeal, demanding pictures, and Richie’s life was forgotten, just the way he was used to, the way it had to be.  
\---

“I mean it’s weird right?”

The rest of the table grew silent, looking towards Ben. His eyes stared down at his empty plate in concentration.

“I mean, I didn’t remember anything about this place, but now that I’m here it all just keeps coming back faster and faster…” 

Richie bit the inside of his cheek, thinking it over. It was the question that had been plaguing his mind for the past twenty-four hours.

Why _didn’t_ he remember Derry? Or any of the Losers?

“I threw up when Mike called me,” he blurted, swallowing hard. “Like, I got nervous and I just...I’m fine now. I feel very relieved to be here with you guys but…”

Eddie took in a deep breath. “When Mike called me I crashed my car.”

“My heart was pounding so hard, I thought it would jump right out of my chest.” Ben’s hand cupped his chest for emphasis, eyes lost in thought.

Bev nodded. “I thought I was the only one.”

Stanley sniffled slightly, clearing his throat as he pulled back his long sleeves to reveal white bandages around his wrists. “I almost killed myself. I was so scared and I thought the only way to not come back was...My wife stopped me before I could cut too deep, and I just...I was so terrified.”

Richie reached out a hand, intertwining his fingers with the other man’s squeezing slightly.

Bill, ever the leader, was the first to vocalize it, stuttering for the first time in over twenty years. “It was like pure f-f-f-fear.”

The realization sat over the group in a cloud, dark and rumbling and terrifying. 

Mike was the first to speak. “Something happens to you when you leave this town. The farther away, the hazier it all gets. But me, I never left. You guys went off and forgot, but I remembered. I remembered all of it.”

 _“Pennywise.”_

Bev’s voice was small as she whispered the name, grey eyes milky with fear and remembrance. It felt like the air was sucked out of the room, leaving everyone gasping, especially Eddie.

“The fucking clown.”

And it all clicked into place in Richie’s mind, a flood in the place of where the trickle of memories had begun.

_The sewers were dark and cold and rank as they trudged through the water, Eddie and Bill navigating the concrete tunnels. Pure fear coursed through Richie’s veins, adrenaline making his heart pump faster and faster until it hurt to breathe in the dirty air. They turned a corner, then another, then another, walking blindly in the dark, their path only illuminated by dim flashlights. Richie turned to his left, lips forming a joke that Stan would yell at him for, lightening the mood, making the dense air lighter._

_Stan wasn’t there._

_“Guys! Guys!” The group stopped after a few steps, looking back at him. There were only five Losers there. “Guys, where’s Stan?”_

_Their shouts of Stan’s name echoed through the sewer tunnels, loud and sharp and desperate. They tried to backtrack, Eddie looking down at his map. After ten minutes of nothing, a familiar scream echoed against the hard walls._

_Stan’s scream._

_Eddie led them through the maze of tunnels like a bat using echolocation, and the cramped space suddenly widened into a larger room, complete with what looked like an antique pump for the sewer system and a ladder leading up into the darkness. In the middle of the room, bright in the beam of their lights, was a woman, disfigured and sharp, hunched over a smaller boy. A boy that was all angles with tight, curly brown hair._

_Her rows of teeth were clamped around Stan’s face as he writhed in pain, screams swallowed by her mouth. She looked up at the Losers, beady eyes staring a hole in their souls, and just as suddenly as she was there, she was gone, crawling on all fours back into the darkness._

_Blood welled up, pouring over the teeth marks that decorated the sides of Stan’s face, deep and frightening. Richie ran to him, propping him up with his skinny arms. Stan screamed, pushing at Richie, but he held on, pulling the boy to him as he wriggled and pushed._

_“You left me! Why did you leave me? You’re not my friends! You made me come into Neibolt! You’re not my friends! This is all your fault! Why did you leave me?”_

_His shrieks were shrill and harsh and broken, tears running down his cheeks in streaks of red. Richie’s eyes stung as he apologized, over and over and over._

_“I’m sorry Stanny, I’m so sorry. I don’t want to be here either. It’s my fault. You’re my best friend, Stanny I promise. Stan, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”_

_They were rocking back and forth, both sobbing, Stan’s blood soaking through Richie’s shirt, but he didn’t care. Stan was his best friend, along with Eddie, and he wasn’t going to lose him again._

_Eddie’s voice echoed over them, frantic once more. “Guys, where’s Bill?”_

_And they were inside of Neibolt, Richie and Bill were banging on the door, trying desperately to get it open, calling for the others. A voice, Eddie’s whisper, sounded in his ear, low and sharp._

_“Richie.”_

_It came from another room, one that was dark and cloaked in bedsheets. Richie turned to look at Bill, who was still pulling on the doorknob, and then crept towards the voice. From behind a sheet-covered object, Richie saw Eddie’s head peek, fast and blurred but definitely him._

_“Eds? Eddie? Where the fuck are you?”_

_He walked further into the room, more relaxed at the sight of his friend._

_“We’re not playing hide and seek, dipshit.”_

_Bill called his name once, and the door slammed between them, locking with a resounding click. He was pounding the wooden door, calling for Bill, when the flourishing sound of sheets falling to the floor graced his ears. He turned, pressing his back to the door, eyes wide behind his coke bottle glasses._

_Dolls decorated the room, all different shapes and sizes. Little raggedy ann dolls littered the floor, clown figurines and heads grinned at him, porcelain beauties smirked in his direction, a figurine with strings attached to its limbs dangled from the ceiling. A creepy laugh echoed in his ears, like something you’d hear in a haunted house at Halloween._

_“Holy shit.”_

_He walked further into the room, approaching the centerpiece, a dark coffin. His heartbeat thumped in his ears, hard and fast. One of the dolls tripped him up, making him stumble into a clown figurine. Underneath his fingers, the skin of the clown was hollow, truly just made of plastic._

_“Stupid clowns,” he whispered to himself, swallowing hard._

_At his words, the coffin’s lid creaked open. The words FOUND decorated the lid in bright red lettering, accompanied by a poster. It said missing on the top border in bold black letters._

_Below it was Richie’s picture. A picture of him wearing the same shirt he was then, white with blue palm trees. His breath caught in his throat._

_“What the fuck?”_

_He crept closer to the coffin, tilting his head to peer inside. There was a lumpy figure under a velvety cloth. It was nerve-wracking as he reached out, feeling the cloth under his fingers. He stretched over, hand grazing over the head of the figure, tugging at the cloth._

_Underneath was a puppet of himself, wearing his exact outfit, face covered in cuts and maggots, eyes white, lips sewn shut._

_“Ugh.” He recoiled, slamming the coffin shut with a bang, backing away. As soon as it closed, however, it was open again, a hulking clown hopping out, landing on the lid as it snapped shut again._

_The clown had orange hair, like the one who had invaded Bill’s projector. Its face was white with red streaks over his eyes, a red smile curling Its lips in delight. Its outfit was white with red pompoms and seams, like a clown you’d see in the circus._

_The clown leered at him, eyes looking at him through his brows._

_“Beep beep, Richie.”_

_A scream tore itself from Richie’s throat, and he backpedaled, running towards the door. A hand grasped the back of his shirt, Billy pulling him through and slamming the door behind them._

“We made an oath. That’s why I brought you back. That’s why you’re here. To finish it. For good.”

Richie’s mouth was dry at Mike’s words, as the responsibility of the situation settled on his shoulders. He grabbed a handful of fortune cookies, passing two to Stan and Eddie and keeping one for himself.

“Well, that shit got dark fast.” 

The rest of the table grabbed cookies as well.

Eddie snapped his open with a sigh, throwing the piece of paper down on the table. “My fortune cookie just says _‘all’._ ”

Richie opened his, also met with a one-word fortune. “Mine says _‘here’_.”

One by one the Losers snapped open their cookies, met with one word each.

“Mine says _‘float’_.”

“Mine says _‘hello’_.”

“Mine says _‘Losers’_.”

“ _‘We’_.”

Mike was the last to open his. “ _‘Down’_. Mine says down.”

Bill looked puzzled as he bit the inside of his cheek, fingers tapping on the table in a slow rhythm. “Could you hand me your fortunes?”

They piled the paper in front of Bill, and the author frowned as he arranged them, starting with the word _‘hello’_.

“ _‘Hello here. Float all down Losers we?_ ’ That’s not right.”

They scrambled the two sentences over and over, until they reached a message that stopped their hearts in their tracks.

“‘Hello Losers. We all float down here.’” Bev read the words with a shaking voice, almost as if she was far away. “It’s back. Mike was right, It is _back_.”

“What the fuck?” The words were off of Richie’s tongue before he could stop them. “Why the fuck would you call us back here, Mike? What the fuck? There no way that I’m sticking around for this sh--”

The table wobbled, stopping his words from becoming any more hurtful. The seven backed away from it as the fortune cookies began to rattle in their bowl, hopping like popcorn in a pan. Like eggs about to be hatched.

A slimy creature popped from one cookie with a squeal. A wing popped from another, flapping in circles.

“What the fuck. What the fuck,” Eddie chanted, gripping Stan’s arm and pulling him towards the corner of the room.

From the cookie nearest to Mike, a cicada-like insect emerged, squealing. It had the head of a baby, with screaming and squalling to match.

Richie’s hand flew to the Glock concealed in his waistband out of force of habit, fingers curling around the cold metal. “What the fuck is that, man?”

“I don’t wanna be here anymore. I wanna go home. I don’t wanna be here. I need my inhaler!”

More and more cookies opened to reveal strange creatures. An eye popped from the one nearest to Richie, green and connected to tentacle-like things. It stared at Richie, scooting closer to him.

“Hey! Hey! That fortune cookie is looking at me!” He pressed his back against the gold and red lattice, desperate to get away from the cookie’s stare. The bat wing began to fly through the air, going towards Eddie and Stan. Before Richie could stop himself, he was yelling Eddie’s name. 

“Eddie! Eddie!”

Boiling red liquid rose in the fortune cookie bowl, steam rolling off of it. It slid across the table, reaching for them, oozing and rancid. 

“It’s not real! It’s not real!” 

Mike picked up a chair, slamming it down on the bowl as he said it over and over again. “It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not--”

“Is everything alright?”

The waitress stood in the door to the room, eyes wide. Richie swallowed as everyone froze, and he smiled awkwardly at her, far too used to covering his tracks.

“Yeah. Can we get the check?”  
\---

The parking lot was cold and damp, wind chilling their cheeks as they huddled around their parked cars. It was as if Derry itself mirrored the dim mood of the night, clouds covering the sky and small droplets of rain falling in spits. Richie’s hands made a home in his pockets, ragged nails pressing crescent tattoos into the skin of his palms. 

He should have known it was too good to be true. Someone like him should have known that no one in their right mind would care for him. They weren’t his best friends anymore, and he was foolish for thinking they could be. They were seven adults, pulled together by an oath they made before puberty took hold. They all had their own lives, their own happiness, and Richie was, as always, miserable and sinking into himself, teeth sinking into his cheeks until he tasted blood.

He didn’t know why he was standing there anymore, watching Bill, Bev, and Bill have a quiet conversation to the side, while Stan and Eddie paced and yelled at Mike.

Some part of him felt bad for Mike, for the homeschooled kid that became the trapped man, who was so optimistic and determined at the beginning of the night only to have his thoughts held together by a string as Stan and Eddie shot their sharp words at him.

It would be easy to disappear. Mike was preoccupied with defending his cause while Stan and Eddie shot him down, the others were in their own world. He could melt into the darkness and walk back to the hotel, grab his stuff and get a bus ticket to Bangor. From there he could fly back to L.A. and continue with a life he hated living, existing under Fuches’s thumb.

He had thirty missed calls from Fuches, all of which were stacked on the lock screen of his phone. They didn’t exactly make him want to go back to his life in L.A.

Before he could think better of it, he clicked a notification, stepping further away from the group as the phone redialed Fuches’ number.

 _“Richie, where the fuck are you?”_ the older man said in place of a formal greeting.

“Well hello to you too, Fuche-alicious.”

_“Shut the fuck up, Richie. I need to know where you are right now.”_

Richie scuffed his toe on the concrete, sighing. “I’m a grown man, Fuches. You don’t need to know where I am all the time.”

Fuches’ voice got eerily low. _“I think you forgot something, Richie. You belong to me. I own you. You don’t make a move without my approval, remember?”_ The malice in his words made Richie’s stomach turn.

“Fuches--”

_“Don’t forget that I have the records of all your kills, Rich. I could send them to the wrong person in a heartbeat. You’re indebted to me. I pulled you out of the gutter after you were discharged. I gave you a purpose. You were nothing when I came to you. You could barely get out of bed and walk. Look at you now! You’d probably be dead if it weren’t for me.”_

Tears pricked Richie’s eyes, and he wiped them away with his palm, covering the phone’s speaker so Fuches couldn’t hear him sniffle.

“I’m sorry.”

_“I’m sorry, what?”_

His voice was barely above a whisper as he replied. “I’m sorry, _Sir_.”

_“Where are you, Richie?”_

Richie bit his lip, leg bouncing. “I’m back in Derry. I’m okay. You don’t have to come here.”

_“I’ll be the judge of that. Pick up the next time I call, or I’ll drag your ass back to L.A. in a heartbeat.”_

The call clicked off, leaving Richie frozen to the spot. The sky was still dark and the sprinkles of rain still ghosted across his face, but everything was shifted to the left, leaving him awkward and bumbling and gasping for air. Bile rose in his throat and he lunged forward, emptying alcohol and Chinese food onto the concrete.

A hand rubbed his back soothingly, someone’s voice asking softly if he thought he could stand. Cold sweat gleamed on his forehead, dripping down his temples and past his eyes where they were screwed shut. The world was tilted sideways, twisted upside down and counter-clockwise, and oh god, he couldn’t breathe.

“If you pass out and fall into your own vomit, I’m leaving you here,” Eddie’s voice sounded from somewhere close behind him. It had a bit of a playful edge, making Richie laugh, bringing the world into clearer focus.

“Eds gets off a good one!”

“Don’t call me that, asshole,” Eddie muttered.

Richie sat back on his heels, wiping vomit from his mouth with the back of his hand, much to Eddie’s visceral disgust.

“You good, Rich?” Bev was crouching in front of him, frowning deeply. 

“Um, yeah.”

Eddie butted in. “Who was that on the phone? That was what made you throw up, I saw it.”

Fuck. Leave it to Eddie to notice him only when he doesn’t want to be noticed.

“It was nothing. Just something with work.”

No one looked convinced, but they didn’t push it either, although Eddie looked as if he wanted to.

“Let’s just get back to the Inn. I wanna get the fuck out of Derry.”  
\---

“Eduardo! _Ándale!_ Let’s go!”

“I’m almost done, dickwad!”

A door slammed, and down the stairs came Eddie, armed with two full-sized suitcases and a crossbody bag, much contrasting from Richie’s singular duffle and Stan’s small suitcase.

“What? Did you pack your whole house in there, Eds?”

“You never know when you’ll need a change of clothes or aspirin, fuckface. At least I’m not underprepared. And don’t fucking call me that.”

“Can you two shut up for five seconds?” 

“Fuck you, Stan!”

“Yeah! Fuck you, Stan!”

They continued to bicker back and forth good-naturedly as Eddie sat his bags down in the foyer of the Inn, where the other four were sat, looking glum.

“You can’t leave!” Mike was shrieking, doing his best to block the door. “You can’t! We made a blood oath!” His eyes were frantic as he tried to reason with them. 

Stan was quiet for a moment, lips pursed. “We were thirteen, Mikey.”

“So? We’ve never been braver than we were then! We almost killed him down in those sewers! We forced him into early hibernation! At thirteen we did what no one had done before!”

Stan threw his hands in the air. “We shouldn’t have had to!”

“Do you even know how to kill him?” Bill asked, fingers rubbing circles into his temples.

Mike hesitated. “There’s a Native American ritual.”

“Of fucking course there is.”

“I’ve been studying this my whole adult life! I’ve met the remaining members of the local tribe, I’ve read every connected book I could find, I’ve memorized the folklore and the stories. I’ve been preparing to bring you guys back since you left! You can’t just _leave_!”

The other Losers glanced at each other nervously.

“Mike--”

“He’s right.” Bev stood, wringing her hands together, refusing to look at anyone. “Mike’s right. If we leave, we all die.”

Bill stood, taking her hands. “What do you mean we all die?”

Tears began to snake their way down her cheeks. “I saw it. In the deadlights. If we don’t kill It, we die. And we all have to kill It together.”

Eddie scoffed. “If we _stay_ then we die.”

“No, Eddie. If we leave here...We won't make it another year.” Her eyes locked on Stan’s forearms, and it clicked.

Richie swallowed thickly, the dry lump that was his tongue trying to compose a joke or an insult, anything to make the room lighter. “You mean that if we leave, we kill ourselves within the next year?”

Sometimes silence says more than words.

“You knew this when we were kids. That’s what you wouldn’t tell us when you talked about the deadlights.”

It wasn’t a question. Richie’s words hung in the air, suffocating them.

“I should’ve told you. But I was scared. I wanted to believe that Pennywise--that It was dead.”

Stan cleared his throat. “You were thirteen, Bev. That’s the problem with all this shit. We were thirteen-year-olds doing what we shouldn’t have had to do. I’m gonna go put my stuff back in my room.”

Eddie stared at him slack-jawed. “Stan? What, you’re staying?”

“I’ve got a kid, Eddie. If it’s maybe dying fighting the clown, or definitely dying out there, I’m gonna do whatever gets me home to my family.” He nodded at Mike and retreated to his room, small suitcase rolling smoothly behind him.

“He’s right Eds. We have a better chance of staying alive if we fight It.”

“I know, asshole. And don’t call me Eds!”  
\---

The lights were off, the room was silent, and yet sleep would not come for Richie. Nighttime had always been the worst time for him. The time where memories resurfaced and thoughts turn dark as the sky, only they didn’t have the moon to illuminate them.

During the day, he could keep busy, keep his head down and the brim of his hat low. It was easy to escape in the daylight, where there was everything to distract him. 

But in the dark, the thoughts always came running, approaching when he was tucked into bed alone, staring at the ceiling with tears in his heart.

More than anything in the world, he just wished his parents hadn’t gone when they did. That he hadn’t forgotten the Losers. That he’d never met Fuches. A domino effect into him becoming a not-so-cold-blooded killer.

Maybe he’d be different. Maybe he’d be happy, or at least have less blood on his hands. Maybe he really could be the old him. The Richie that had died so many times over, but for the first time at a funeral, the second when he lost his second family, and the third when the gun was placed in his hands.

The fourth when an old friend knocked on his door and took advantage of a recovering veteran looking for purpose.

Every time after that, when another soul left Earth because of the man that had shed his boyish skin.

He didn’t hear the rapping of wood at first, thinking it a figment of his imagination. But it got louder and more insistent until he had no choice but to open the door to his room. There in the hallway stood Eddie with a pillow tucked under his arm.

“Took you long enough,” he huffed, waltzing past Richie like that was something he did, something they did.

It used to be.

_He launched another pebble at the window, watching it bounce off the glass pane. It slid open smoothly, Eddie sticking his head out, mouth twisted into a frown._

_“What the fuck, Rich?”_

_“I couldn’t sleep. Can I come up?”_

_Eddie sighed, like he didn’t always say yes and let him in. “Fine. Just don’t wake my mom.”_

_It was a little game they played. Richie asked to come in, acting like he didn’t care either way, and Eddie conceded, acting like he didn’t have Richie secretly sleepover at least five times a week._

_Richie scampered up the tree, stepping off the thick bough and through the gap that Eddie had left for him._

_“Wanna read the newest issue of New Mutants? I got the last one from the shop!”_

_“Only if you wait for me to be done before you turn the page!”_

“No, really Eds, come on in. I insist,” Richie muttered into the hallway before latching the door behind him.

Eddie laid his pillow on the foot of the bed, untucking the covers from that side.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Richie hesitated before nodding. “Me either. Just like old times, right?”

Eddie snorted. “Yeah. God, I don’t think I ever had as much fun as those nights. It was actually the first thing I remembered when Mike called, you slipping through my window and making me laugh so hard I thought I’d wake my mom and be grounded for life.”

Richie raised an eyebrow, knowing he must’ve imagined the blush flushing across the other man’s cheeks. He wished he could say something, do anything, to be brave in that moment. Something like _'I loved you so much then and I think I love you even more now'_ or _'I can never sleep right without you. All my life I’ve never been able to sleep right and now I know it was you I was missing and I don’t ever want to forget you again, even if loving you unrequited kills me'._

But he just slipped into bed beside the man of his dreams, their heads on opposite ends, Eddie’s feet in his face like in that goddamn hammock when they were kids.

“Night, Eds,” he whispered towards Eddie’s toes. Eddie just groaned sleepily, foot flicking towards him in annoyance, almost catching his face with a kick. 

His breath evened out quickly afterwards, sleep overtaking the room.

Richie himself found sleep washing over him steadily, the presence of Eddie making it come easier.

_“Eddie? You awake?”_

The only response was quiet breathing with no change.

Richie bit the inside of his cheek, a confession on the tip of his tongue.

He’d never had a backboard for his emotions, something to catch his words and bounce them back, someone to listen. Not since the Losers. And Eddie was asleep anyway, so he just said fuck it.

_“Eddie, I’m not the person everyone remembers. I’ve done a lot of bad things. I’ve hurt a lot of people. Killed people. I don’t think I deserve you guys. The old Richie did, but old Richie wasn’t me. I’m not him.”_

He half expected Eddie to jump out of bed and run away screaming, or maybe ask him what the fuck he was on, but Eddie just slept.

Feeling a bit lighter, soon Richie joined him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The shot mentioned called the "Red-Headed Slut" is the actual shot they took in the dinner scene of IT Chapter Two.


End file.
